A Most Human Person (4)
by dylannhyland
Summary: March - December 2013. Loving Sherlock Holmes was different to anything John had experienced. Of course it would be. Sherlock Holmes was different to any person John had ever met. A little series of oneshots during 2013 in my 'Never Once Failed' series. John gradually learns little bits about how Sherlock came to be the extraordinary man that he is. Feels, fluff, smut.
1. Chapter 1

Loving Sherlock Holmes was different to anything John had experienced. Of course it would be. Sherlock Holmes was different to any person John had ever met.

He was still an insufferable git. John would come home to find him doing all sorts of disgusting things to body parts 'procured' from Bart's mortuary. He still flounced around crime scenes like he owned the place, completely disregarding the people who were actually paid to be there. He still got indecently exhilarated at the news of a particularly gruesome and mysterious murder. He still looked at John with that expression that said 'How do you manage to function with such a tiny brain?'

But he also let John in. He let John see corners of his being that perhaps nobody else in the world knew existed. He was, in fact, the most human person that John had ever known.

* * *

25 December 2012

John awoke with a start on Christmas day. At first, it was hard to tell what had roused him, as he couldn't think much past his pounding headache. However, it wasn't long before cold fingers nudged at his back again, the temperature difference making him jump.

_"John."_

He opened his eyes _(ow, too bright)_ and rolled over to see Sherlock, flat on his back and with one hand pressing a pillow over his eyes. John wasn't the only one with a hangover, then. Sherlock reached his pillow-free hand out and prodded John again, seemingly not realising that the doctor was already awake. The cold fingers struck John's chest, and he yelped.

"Ah! Yes, I'm awake."

"Need aspirin."

John sighed and buried his head back in his own pillow. _Berk._

"Can't you get it yourself?"

John was expecting some detailed explanation about why John was in better condition than Sherlock to go fetch the medicine (surely the detective would make something up about respective alcohol tolerance and body weight and chemistry things?), but all he got in response was a feeble "No. Please."

And when Sherlock Holmes sounds feeble, John Watson can't say no. Well, he can't say no to Sherlock most of the time anyway, but that's not the point.

John pulled himself out of bed _(no nausea at least, that's good)_ and headed toward the kitchen to fetch the aspirin.

Memories of last night swam through his head. Christmas Eve drinks. Not the best occasion of the year, but Sherlock and John put up with it for Mrs Hudson's sake. This year she had invited some of her older friends, and some of the neighbours (Mrs Turner, and Lucy and Michelle - the 'married ones') around as well as Greg, Molly (John was surprised she came at all, given last year's bloody fiasco) and Sarah (John was relieved that he and Sarah had stayed on good terms after they broke up - she was still quite a good friend, actually). It was pleasant enough, as Sherlock seemed to have learnt from last year that he really ought to speak as little as possible when there were friends around that Mrs Hudson and John actually wanted to _keep_ as friends. So he spent most of the evening either watching the street or talking to Greg (the only person he was trusted not to completely alienate - but that was more of a compliment to Greg than to Sherlock) and John chatted pleasantly and did the sort of rounds that a good host does.

John rummaged through the medicine cabinet to find the aspirin. He ate a few water crackers and took one himself, then popped another in a glass of water for Sherlock. On the way back to the bedroom, he stopped for the loo. He glanced at the bathroom mirror, and then did a double-take. Across one side of his neck was a deep red bruise, the intensity of which could rival the horniest of teenagers. _Oh, God. That happened, didn't it?_

When everybody had left last night, John and Sherlock had sat in their chairs by the fire, each with a sizable glass of Mrs Hudson's mulled wine in hand, and Sherlock telling John (rather slurred - John had the feeling Greg may have been trying to see how drunk he could get Sherlock) about the cold case that Lestrade was going to bring him on Boxing Day. Several separate disappearances from the 90s - middle aged men who vanished after returning from business trips in other countries. Different jobs, different employers, different countries - nothing apparently connecting them.

Sherlock was funny when he was drunk. Somehow, John had always thought that the detective's extraordinary brain might be somehow resistant to the effects of alcohol, but here he was, making exaggerated faces and slurring and giggling when he forgot what he was talking about - actually _giggling _\- just like any other mere mortal. John tried to listen intently, but the gentle lull of alcohol in his veins led him to focus more on the excitement in Sherlock's eyes _(what colour are they? Green? Grey? Hard to tell, nice though),_ the light playing off his cheekbones, the way his mouth (those full lips, that John had only recently discovered looked so perfect when they were around his cock) moved, and before long, he found himself straddling the detective and their tongues sliding against each other - albeit a bit more messily than usual. The fact that Sherlock didn't protest John's clear lack of attention to what he had been saying was definitely a testament to how much he had drunk. At some point, one of them had mumbled something about "bedroom" and tried to get up, but they were both unwilling to let go of each other's mouths for long enough to actually get there.

This was still new and exciting and John still couldn't quite believe that this was what they were now - they were _partners._ 'Course, everything was exactly as it had been - they went out and solved cases and ran about London and bickered over social diplomacy and who had to do the shopping this week and Sherlock was a right royal git and John was the patron saint of patience, but it was also _more._ They shared a bed and they kissed and they did things that John had never thought they would do.

Too hungry for each other to wait to get to the bedroom, they decided to settle for the floor in the middle of the living room. Sherlock was enthusiastically sucking on John's neck and clumsily trying to unbutton John's trousers when, too late, they heard a set of footsteps just outside the door. A latch clicking, the creak of hinges, Molly Hooper's voice saying something about she forgot her scarf and just came back to grab it, and they were frozen (Sherlock's teeth still on John's throat), neither thinking fast enough, and then there was Molly and she was frozen in the doorway and looking mortified. _Bugger._

"Oh! Sorry, I'm so sorry, I'll come back another time, um -" she managed to blurt out before turning and practically running out the door.

Sherlock's eyes stayed on the doorway where Molly had been standing, and he frowned as though thinking hard.

"That's a not-good thing, isn' it?"

Despite his mortification (that wasn't how he had envisaged coming out - it'd only been two weeks since that first surprising kiss, and he still wasn't really sure he was ready to tell people that John Not Gay Watson had kind of only been Not Gay to protect himself from the disappointment of Sherlock's disinterest), John was too addled by alcohol and lust to think about it now. He did, at least, ensure they got back to the bedroom before continuing.

He returned to the bedroom with a bucket, some crackers, and glass of aspirin water in hand. He placed the bucket next to Sherlock's side of the bed and gently nudged the detective.

"Merry Christmas."

"I'm not sure that it is." Sherlock didn't move except for holding out his hand.

"Eat these first, it'll stop it irritating your stomach." He waited patiently while Sherlock ate the crackers before holding out the aspirin water.

"You actually have to sit up to drink it, you know." he gently pulled the pillow away from Sherlock's face and helped him sit up. Sherlock's eyes remained squeezed shut, his brow furrowed. "And if you're going to be sick, aim for the bucket. Don't fancy cleaning up your vomit."

Sherlock took a sip of the aspirin water before replying.

"Already did before you woke up. Made it to the toilet in time." He took another sip, although this one was more of a gulp. He made a face at the taste.

"Why do people willingly do this to themselves?"

John chuckled and got back into bed again. He checked the clock - 9 am. They wouldn't need to be out of bed until midday for Mrs Hudson's Christmas lunch. When Sherlock had finished his aspirin and laid back down, John pulled him over so that the detective's back was to him. He ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and over his scalp - rhythmic, soothing motions. Sherlock hummed lowly, like a cat purring, and leaned a little into the touch.

"My mother used to do this. I suffered migraines as a child. This always helped."

John smiled. There were these little surprising things that had been coming out lately. Things that Sherlock would never have shared with him if they had remained just friends and flatmates.

"What's she like, your mum?"

Sherlock didn't answer for a while. John was thinking he may have fallen back asleep, but then Sherlock shifted a little.

"Like Mrs Hudson, but fatter, and a mathematical genius."

John snorted. That was a bizarre image.

"What?" Sherlock sounded offended.

"I just can't imagine it," John chuckled. "Guess I'll have to meet her sometime. What about your father?"

"Pleasant, but completely average."

"Oh - not a rocket scientist or something, then?"

"No. He is an _excellent_ cobbler, though." John detected a hint of humour through Sherlock's hangover-strained voice.

"And yours?"

"My parents?"

"Mm."

"Both very ordinary. They're accountants - met at university. Nothing particularly exciting."

"Do you get on with them?"

It was funny, hearing Sherlock ask questions like that outside the context of a case. He didn't usually give a rat's ass about anyone's familial relationships unless it pertained directly to a brutal murder.

"Yeah, they're good sorts. Mum's great. Dad's always been a bit distant."

Sherlock didn't reply, but John felt him nod minutely under his fingers. Soon enough, John was drifting off to the sound of rain on the window.

* * *

Despite Sherlock's supposed disdain for Christmas ("Why do people celebrate the unconfirmed birth of a human counterpart to a nonexistent delusion by spending exorbitant amounts of money on each other?"), John thought he did a pretty good impression of someone who really didn't mind the holiday at all.

Mrs Hudson loved the smartphone that they had bought her. It was Sherlock's idea - she'd been getting by on an old Nokia for years now, and being the technophile that he is, he couldn't stand for her to be without a 3G internet connection any longer. Something he apparently hadn't foreseen, though, was her insistence on taking at least twenty 'selfies' with both of them as soon as she discovered the camera function ("Ooh, Mrs Turner's lodger told me all about this, taking pictures of yourself is very popular with all the young ones! He said I can put them on the Instagram - can I get the Instagram on this phone, Sherlock?"). John was pleasantly surprised (and slightly wary) when Sherlock handed him a gift - he'd never bothered with giving John a Christmas or birthday present before. He was even more pleasantly surprised to find it was a crime novel, the most recent one by Ian Rankin.

"Wow, thanks!" He turned to Sherlock with a smile. Sherlock seemed pleased with his reaction.

"Well, you've got the rest of D.I. Rebus' adventures, so I thought you might like the most recent. I read it yesterday - it's not bad, actually."

_"Sherlock,"_ Mrs Hudson interjected, "You're not meant to read a book you've bought as a present for someone else."

Sherlock frowned.

"Why not? I was making sure it wasn't awful."

They continued their gentle bickering while the rest of the presents were unwrapped (Mrs Hudson had bestowed a positive _mountain_ of gifts upon both of them), and John could _swear _Sherlock was enjoying this little scene of domesticity. He certainly was intrigued by the book John had bought for him - a collection of (apparently) the world's hardest logic puzzles. John had seen it in Foyle's and thought it was worth a try. Might keep Sherlock entertained for an afternoon.

Mrs Hudson's roast lunch rivalled any that John had ever eaten, and left both he and Sherlock in a much better condition than they had woken up in. The same could definitely be said for her Christmas pudding, of which John probably ate far too much, but it was too good to stop until he thought he might burst. At 3, Mrs Hudson turned on the Queen's message ("Oh,_ come on, Sherlock_, it's traditional!") and made them sit in front of the telly to watch it with her. Given the excellent lunch and the generosity of her gifts, they could hardly argue (although Sherlock did try, before receiving a firm elbow to the ribs).

All in all, by the time Sherlock and John made their way back upstairs laden with presents and turkey sandwiches and slices of pudding to put in the fridge for tomorrow's meals, they were thoroughly full, exhausted, and content.

John flicked on the telly, stoked the fire and made some tea before sitting back down to watch the _Doctor Who_ Christmas Special. Bit of a silly tradition, but he liked it anyway. To his surprise, Sherlock joined him.

John wasn't really paying attention to the show. His mind wandered, contemplating the bizarre turn of events his life had taken in the last few years. One of the things that he never thought he'd get back once he left the army was that real sense of family and belonging he'd had. He was wrong. Here, in this messy flat in the middle of London, he belonged - and this mad detective and their ex-exotic-dancer landlady were his family.

About halfway through the episode, Sherlock looked over at John.

"You're thinking far too loudly for someone engrossed in a tale about poorly animated snowmen with teeth."

John chuckled.

"Mm. Just thinking."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

Instead of answering (there's a big difference between thinking that sort of stuff and saying it out loud), John stood, turned the telly off and took Sherlock's hand. Sherlock looked at John curiously, and let himself be led to the bedroom.

When Mrs Hudson came up the stairs that evening to pop some extra fruit mince pies in the fridge, she paused in the kitchen for a moment. She turned to Sherlock's room with a look of concern on her face - _what's that noise?_ It was only when she drew closer and was about to knock on the door to check if Sherlock was alright that she realised - that sound was the whimpers not of one man, but _two_ \- and a strangled moan of _"Oh my god, Sherlock-"_ in John's voice confirmed her realisation. With an enormous smile plastered across her face, she tiptoed out of the flat and left them to it.


	2. Chapter 2

7 March

Sherlock had been playing for hours now, since before John had woken up. Thinking about the case they had just solved yesterday. John sat in his armchair, reading the papers. John was no expert in music, but he could read volumes into the notes that were pushing their way from under Sherlock's fingers. The case had been a heavy one. Triple murder - children and a father murdered by their mother. Even Sherlock was bothered.

The melody that had started sweet and hopeful turned haunting, dark, mournful. The arc of the music telling its tale. The mother's descent into mental illness. Her schizophrenia. Her husband's fear as he saw the decline but didn't know what to do. The children, scared and confused. Her final episode where she had turned the knife on the people she loved.

The case hadn't been particularly challenging to solve - only taking an hour - but this was sticking to Sherlock more resolutely than any of the ones that had taken weeks to crack. This one had _upset_ him, and this heart wrenching, beautiful music was how he dealt with it. He drew a final shimmering, cathartic note from the violin and let it resound through the flat, and his tribute to that family came to a close. He placed the violin down, watching the street. Letting it go. It helped John to let go, as well.

"Why did you stop wanting to be a pirate?"

Sherlock didn't answer for a while.

"Too easy," he said in a low voice before turning to face John, his hands slipping in to the pockets of his robe.

His face was lighter now than it had been when they had returned to the flat last night. They hadn't discussed their mutual angst about the case. They didn't need to. It was just a sick woman who had taken the lives of people she loved and lost everything in turn, through no fault of her own. John was well accustomed to lamenting the unfair in life, but the tragedy of this struck even Sherlock. He couldn't dwell on it, though. Life moves on.

"It's easy to break the rules. It's much more fun to work backwards to catch those who _are_ lazy enough to do so."

John's mouth twisted into a half-smile. Sherlock returned it.


	3. Chapter 3

23 May

"Why?"

Sherlock rolled over in bed with a soft groan, looking thoroughly debauched. Which he had every right to be, having just had three orgasms in the space of an hour. John was surprised he could move at all, really. His hair was messy, his were lips red and swollen from kissing (and far _less_ innocent activities), and fingertip bruises were smattered over his hips and buttocks. Before embarking upon a proper relationship with Sherlock, John would never have imagined the enthusiasm with which Sherlock would take to sex - but he should have seen it coming, he supposed. Sherlock never did things in half measures, and sex was no different. He liked being able to switch off his mind and let his body take control - this morning had been testament to that fact. The detective still had that slightly dazed look on his face. John would have found the sight irresistible, had he not _also_ been completely spent. He was standing at the dresser, picking some clothes out for the day. His legs were still a bit wobbly.

"Why what?" Sherlock's voice was still breathy.

"Why the bee?" His head jerked toward the framed picture hanging on the wall to his left.

"I like bees," Sherlock's words were unhurried as he continued to catch his breath. "Their colonies are nice. Elegant structure. Complex, but very-" a yawn interrupted his sentence, "-ordered. _And_ they make honey."

John chuckled.

"What?" Sherlock sounded affronted.

"You just used the word 'nice' as an adjective."

Sherlock's offended features relaxed again, unperturbed. "Oh. Yes, well. I think it'll be a while until my full vocabulary returns." He smirked.

"You could keep bees. You know, have your own hives." The thought of Sherlock doing something so ordinary as beekeeping was a bit bizarre, but it might be another source of distraction when Sherlock was suffering post-case-boredom; and John never turned his nose up at those.

"Mm. Not practical here in Baker Street." Sherlock turned his voice melodramatically wistful. "Maybe when my body is too old and frail to chase after criminals and I leave my darling London to find a cottage in the country."

John laughed. "So that's your plan, then? Cottage in the country?"

"Problem?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"No, no - I guess I just didn't know what to expect. I suppose I never imagine you growing old... Dorset, Devon, that sort of thing?"

"Mm, thinking more Sussex. Couldn't bear to be _too_ far away from London. And neither could you." Sherlock smirked at him, a warmth in his eyes.

John suddenly felt a bit of a lump rise in his throat and tears well in his eyes. He looked away, pretending to choose another shirt. Sherlock would notice, though. Of course he'd bloody notice.

"What's wrong?"

John tried to make his voice sound nonchalant.

"Eh? Nothing, I'm fine." He managed to blink back most of the tears and clear his throat whilst rummaging through the dresser.

"No you're not, something's wrong. I'm not even going to bother listing the six deductions that tell me you're not fine, because you know exactly what they are." The springs of the bed creaked as Sherlock heaved himself up to sitting.

_Six? Am I really behaving oddly in six different ways?_ John let out an exasperated sigh and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Look, Sherlock, I actually _am_ fine."

Sherlock just raised a contemptuous eyebrow.

_Oh, for God's sake._ He huffed a breath out his nose.

"Really, it's nothing-"

_"John."_

He turned at met Sherlock's gaze again, and something in him gave way a little. Sherlock looked genuinely concerned. He took a deep breath, determined not to let his voice crack.

"I guess it's just... You assume I'll still be with you when you're old and frail and keeping bees in the country."

Sherlock blinked, and John saw that lost child he had been at the pool when he thought that John had betrayed him.

"You won't?"

_Oh, shit. _He realised how what he just said must have sounded.

"No! No - wait - as in, yes!" He paused for a second, trying to get his words straight before shaking his head and smiling. "Of course I'll be there with you, you daft bastard," he reached over to take Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock blinked a few times, frowning, and his eyes met John's again. Cautious.

"So you _do_ want to spend our lives in partnership."

"Yes."

"And you think that me assuming that we will spend the rest of our lives together is a - good? - thing?"

_"Yes."_

Sherlock frowned again.

"So what's the problem?"

_"There is no problem," _John laughed. Sherlock still looked confused, so he tried again. "I think it's just nice to realise I'm not the only one that's in this for the long haul."

Sherlock still looked a little doubtful.

"Oh. So your emotional response-," he gestured towards John's eyes, which were still a little wet, "-wasn't negative." He paused, as though thinking hard about something before he spoke again.

"Sentiment?"

John fought the impulse to roll his eyes. Sometimes Sherlock still used his _supposed_ emotional ineptitude (after six months in a proper relationship with Sherlock, John had no doubt that the detective was perfectly capable of both feeling _and_ recognising a wide range of emotions) as a guise for seeking reassurance. He bloody well knew what had made John cry, he just wanted him to say it out loud. It was endearing, really, John thought - that he cared enough to want to be reassured of John's commitment. John laughed and punched him in the arm before replying with a smile.

"Sentiment."


	4. Chapter 4

9 June

John loved these golden moments of half-consciousness. London's poor excuse for a summer day (lukewarm at best, with a gentle smattering of rain on the window) was still dawning. Warm bed around him. Warm Sherlock behind him and inside him. Languid bodies moving together without rhythm.

In these moments, John could be forgiven for thinking he was with an ordinary person. The tongue that had shred so many egos now lapped messy kisses at the back of his neck. The brilliant mind that solved murders and mysteries was silent, letting the flesh take control, seeking contact and love and release all at once. The fingers that drew such extraordinary music from his violin roamed gently over John's chest, caressed his stomach, squeezed his hips, until they found his cock and began stroking firmly and slowly in time to Sherlock's own thrusts.

Soft moans, delicious shudders, this intoxicating embrace. John reached back and his hands traced those curves of soft skin and angular hip bones. He found Sherlock's arse and pulled him closer and deeper, grinding against him, _more, please, more_ and was rewarded with a gasp and a moan and teeth in his shoulder as Sherlock came, rocking deeper into John and hitting him just where he needed it. The detective's hand tightened around John's cock and pumped a few more times, and then he was the one shuddering and moaning as his release spurted rhythmically over Sherlock's fingers. Bursts of pleasure rolling through his sleep-heavy body. Involuntary groans. Deep breaths. Another kiss on the back of his neck. Could sleep a while longer.

The detective pulled out and reached lazily for some tissues to clean his hand off, then let his arm fall slack over John's torso again. His fingers traced light patterns over John's scar. John couldn't feel much there, just a light tickle. _Mmm._

While he wouldn't want the rest of their ridiculous life together to be any other way, he was glad he could have these moments of sweet normality with Sherlock. Proper intimacy.

_"Mmm."_ That familiar deep hum-chuckle-thing of satisfaction rumbled from Sherlock's chest into John's back. John knew by now that that noise meant a number of things. There were a lot of things that Sherlock struggled to say aloud, and so communicated without the English language. First, this particular hum meant _"this is the best way to wake up,"_ and then, _"breakfast sounds good about now, if you could make me some toast and tea in the next half hour I'll lie here and wait for you to do it like the lazy (but you don't really mind, you've never minded) git that I am," _\- okay, maybe not quite in those words, but that was the general gist - and then, most importantly, it meant _"I don't say it much, but I love you and I am grateful that you share this with me."_ John loved that hum. He was halfway towards scraping together a sentence that expressed some sort of affection and satisfaction when his train of thought was interrupted by a satisfied baritone voice.

"Mycroft would _loathe _this."

John's sleep-and-orgasm-fogged mind tried to understand.

"Mycroft would hate morning sex and cuddles with me?" He snorted at the thought. That couldn't have been what Sherlock meant, but he wasn't in a fit state right now to try to figure it out.

"No, he would loathe _me_ having morning sex and cuddles with you." John laughed. It was always funny to hear Sherlock say words like 'cuddles'. Sherlock slipped a leg between John's. Much more comfortable.

"Why are you thinking about Mycroft right now?"

"Oh, he's always blustering around and saying an-an-" he gave in to a yawn, "-annoying things."

"What, in your head?"

"Mm."

_"Mycroft's_ your inner voice?"

"Not really. Mostly he just guides me through difficult deductions, but sometimes he pops in to give unwanted opinions."

Despite the heaviness of his eyelids right now, John was fascinated. Even though he'd known Sherlock for three years, the workings of that mind still escaped his understanding.

"Is that a memory technique? To have him guiding you?"

"Not memory, just logic. When there's a vast amount of data to piece together, it helps to imagine someone talking me through it. And since he's _volunteered-"_ his voice took on a sarcastic tone, "himself for the role of chaperone my whole life, he's become the default."

"Mm. Makes sense, I guess. Why _has_ he got such a bloody power complex?"

"He thinks that just because he's the smart one he should be the one making all the decisions. Hence his career path. Clearly, meddling in my life wasn't enough and he needs to run the whole country."

"Did you just say_ he's_ the smart one?"

Sherlock huffed a sigh against the back of John's neck, but offered no other reply. John suppressed a laugh. For Sherlock to admit that sort of thing to John was a big thing in itself. He wouldn't push it.

"Well, he doesn't seem to be doing _that_ bad a job at running the country, at least."

"I didn't say he was," Sherlock's voice was a bit defensive.

_"Oh."_

"Oh what?"

John rolled over to face Sherlock.

"You respect him."

Sherlock drew short intake of breath and frowned, the way he did when he had been taken slightly off-guard and was trying to think of a response.

"Well. That's a civil way of putting it."

"He does care a lot about you, you know. And he's doing a lot of work with the taking-down-Moriarty thing."

Sherlock rolled onto his back, and John settled more comfortably into his shoulder.

"He cares a lot about controlling me." Sherlock neglected to address John's second sentence.

"Because he worries about you. Oh, yeah - back to the first bit, why would he hate our morning sex and cuddles?"

"He thinks love is frivolous. He's been _insufferable_ since he found out about us," John opened his mouth to protest, because as far as he knew Mycroft had been (far from being insufferable) pointedly _ignoring_ the topic of their relationship, but Sherlock cut him off. "He spares _you_ when he visits - because he doesn't want to lose you as potential source of intelligence on my whereabouts and wellbeing - but you should see the way he gloats at me when you're not present. Mycroft has an exceptional mind, but he is _spectacularly ignorant_ about some things."

Those words pulled at something in John's memory. He looked up at Sherlock, who smirked back at him. Oh, of course. The first blog post he'd ever written about a case. He'd called Sherlock 'spectacularly ignorant' about some things that seem obvious to normal people (it _was_ the bloody solar system). John chuckled.

"Well, I'm glad _you've _figured this particular thing out, at any rate."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, his fingers tracing through John's hair.


	5. Chapter 5

Lots of references in this chapter to the goings-on in one of my other stories in this series, "Not Chasing, Prowling". I do recommend reading it if you'd like this chapter to make a bit more sense!

* * *

2 December

One of the upsides of being abducted and having your ribs fractured is _definitely_ being able to pass on most of the household chores to Sherlock for a while. John had come to this conclusion the day he had returned home from hospital with strict instructions of rest and avoidance of all strenuous activity - which, of course, included carrying grocery bags, vacuuming, cleaning - pretty much anything that didn't include laying down or sitting still. At first, Sherlock tried to appeal to Mrs Hudson's motherly tendencies; but she laid down the law of 'landlady-not-housekeeper' and refused to do more than bring up a daily batch of biscuits and tea. This left Sherlock with the responsibility of preventing the mess and starvation that it was usually John's job to stave off.

"It'll do you good, dear, I think your mother has a lot to answer for," Mrs Hudson had chided with a little smile and a sideways wink at John.

"Yes, I know, I've got a list. Mycroft has a whole _file,"_ was the petulant response.

Despite Sherlock's reluctance, if he took to a task, he did so with complete focus. Not for the first time, he surprised John with his array of thus-far-hidden talents: it turned out that the detective had once been a _more_-than-capable cook, but had deleted most of the relevant data since moving in with Mrs Hudson and John - as both of them were usually willing to either buy him food or do the cooking for him. Twenty minutes reading an old cookbook was all he needed to re-learn the necessary skills.

The day after John had returned from hospital, Greg dropped by 221B. He knocked on the door to the living room, Mrs Hudson having shown him in. John got gingerly to his feet from his armchair to greet him.

"Blimey, you took a beating," Greg took in John's bruises as they shook hands and winced in sympathy. "How you feeling?"

"Never mind the injuries, I'm bored as hell. I'm cooped up for a few weeks on doctor's orders until the ribs heal. Wouldn't mind a pint later this week, once I'm not feeling quite so shit."

"Sounds good. You wouldn't believe the week I've had -" Greg paused, looking around the living room. "Huh. I didn't think cleaning counted as rest. You really that bored already?"

"Eh?"

"I've never seen the place so clean since you moved in."

"Oh! No, it's Sherlock, he's had to take over the household chores since I can't, and he's actually better at it than me." John smirked and nodded towards to kitchen, where Sherlock was reading something intently on his phone in his right hand, and stirring a pot of soup on the stove with his left. To add to the already peculiar picture, Sherlock had borrowed one of Mrs Hudson's vegetable-print aprons (after deeming his lab coat too likely to be a biological hazard to wear while doing actual cooking) and donned it over his suit shirt and trousers. Greg's reaction was priceless. His jaw dropped open in disbelief, and he grabbed his phone out of his pocket and snapped a photo quicker than John knew was physically possible. The Yarders would get a kick out of this one.

"Look at you, Sherlock Holmes, domestic goddess!" His laughter startled Sherlock out of whatever he was reading. Sherlock scowled at him before returning his eyes to his phone.

"At least I've got someone to cook _for_, Lestrade. I see that _your_ wife's still sleeping with the PE teacher."

_"Sherlock!"_ John thought this was a low blow, but Lestrade laughed it off and sat down in Sherlock's armchair opposite John.

"And _I'm_ sleeping with Molly Hooper, as it happens."

John gaped, and Sherlock's cold facade shattered. He looked back up at Greg, his expression scandalised. Greg's face was unashamedly smug - partly, John reckoned, because he was finally getting some, and partly because Sherlock hadn't noticed.

_"Molly Hooper?!"_ Sherlock was outraged, which of course just made Greg laugh more. Sherlock just stood there with his mouth hanging open, as though he was too furious to find words.

"Didn't see that one coming, eh?" Greg smirked. John didn't really understand why Sherlock seemed so upset - John hadn't_ expected _it, but it seemed overall to be a good thing. Greg had been down about his wife for ages, and maybe this would help Molly finally move on from Sherlock - because she was lovely, really, and deserved better than to be in love with a manipulative git that paid her no attention. _Hmm,_ John reminded himself, _**my**__ manipulative git._ Things had been a bit awkward with Molly since John and Sherlock had got together. She tried to act normal, but John could tell she still wasn't over Sherlock. _Well, _he thought_, maybe she is now_. Greg could be just the thing she needed.

"Well, good. Good for you," he smiled at Greg and nodded his approval.

"Yes, it is_ good for you_, isn't it?" Sherlock stalked over to stand in front of Lestrade, his eyes narrowed with suspicion and his voice dripping with venom. Despite the bloody ridiculous apron and the spoon in his hand, he still managed to look intimidating. Lestrade was well practiced at dealing with Sherlock's moods by now, though, so he just raised his chin with a defiant grin. He even managed to imitate Sherlock's usual arrogant tone with his reply.

"Problem?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed impossibly more, his furious gaze unfaltering as though he were x-raying Lestrade.

"It might be good for you_, but is it good for her?"_

Oh. _Oh._ _Wow._ Sherlock was being _protective._ That was a first. _Well, not really,_ a little voice piped up in the back of John's mind._ He threw that American bastard out the window when he attacked Mrs Hudson. He rescued The Woman from execution in the Middle East. He snapped Moran's neck when he kidnapped me._ Maybe not a first, then. But - Molly? Sherlock had always treated her awfully (the incident at Christmas drinks that year still stuck painfully in John's mind). He was only nice to her when he needed something - why did he care so much about her all of a sudden? John was pulled out of his thoughts by the escalating argument in front of him.

"'Course it's good for her, what you talking about?"

"Ratio of dates-to-sexual encounters?"

"What?"

"How many times have you taken her out versus how many times you have had sex with her?" Sherlock was in full interrogation mode, now, but Greg wasn't having any of it.

"Why's that any of your business?"

"Of _course_ it's my business, you need to treat her properly- "

_"Alright, now, girls, can we tone it down a bit?" _They both turned to John as if they'd forgotten he was there. Sherlock huffed an angry sigh, but fell silent. He'd been unusually willing to do as John asked since he'd been kidnapped, and John had been taking full advantage of the situation - he didn't know if it'd last once he was fully healed.

"Sherlock, siddown and relax a bit," he ordered, and heaved himself out of his chair. Despite his foul mood, Sherlock offered John his hand and pulled him to standing. John indicated that Sherlock should sit where he had just vacated; if he was determined to interrogate Greg about his treatment of Molly, he should at least be sitting and not towering over him. Sherlock obliged, flopping down like a petulant teenager. John yanked the spoon from his hand and started towards the kitchen.

"John, you can't-"

"I'm hardly running a marathon, Sherlock, I reckon I can stir some soup for a bit. Now, you two sort this out civilly,_ like grown-ups."_ He caught Greg's eye and they smirked at each other. It really was none of Sherlock's business, but - like John - Lestrade didn't mind humouring this mad bastard they had both come to love - albeit in different ways.

John retreated to the kitchen as Sherlock and Greg restarted the conversation at a more acceptable decibel level. He was glad to have something to do, really, even if it was just something as menial as making sure the soup didn't burn to the bottom of the pot. He flicked on the radio to see if anything interesting was on the news, but no luck - just the usual humdrum of politics and local stories.

Sherlock's questions started at the relatively reasonable end ("First date?", "How many times have you taken her to the pub, and how many have you taken her to dinner?", "Do you always ensure she gets home safely?"), but quickly ventured into the realm of total-invasion-of-privacy (From "How many dates did you go on before you had sex?", ranging to "Do you always reciprocate oral stimulation?") but Lestrade answered in good humour. _The things we do for Sherlock. _John shook his head.

When Sherlock was apparently satisfied that Greg was indeed treating Molly with proper dignity and care _(he's one to bloody talk)_, he gave the other detective a curt nod of approval.

"Right, glad we've got that sorted. Am I free to move, now?" Greg rose from the chair and winked at John over Sherlock's head.

"Cuppa, Greg?" John offered.

"Nah, can't stay, actually, just wanted to pop by and see how you were doing - and of course," he turned back to Sherlock with a smirk, "be interrogated for half an hour about my love life."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and rose as well. He began to guide Lestrade to the door with unnecessary haste.

"Yes, I think it's time you scuttled back to the Yard. And next time you _pop by,"_ he said the colloquial words sarcastically, making it clear that he considered Greg unwelcome, _"do_ bring a case. I'll be done with Moriarty's prosecution within the month, and since John's in no fit state to be shagging me into oblivion any time soon, it won't be long before we'll need a case to occupy ourselves with." And with that, he closed the door in Greg's face.

He returned to the kitchen and hitched a mask of complete innocence onto his face in response to John's look of incredulity.

"What?"

"What was all that for?"

"All what?"

John tried a different tack.

"Well, firstly, why have you got a problem with him seeing Molly?"

Sherlock plucked the spoon from John's hands and steered him to a seat at the table before fetching bowls and a ladle from the cupboard. When he did speak, his tone was surprisingly sombre.

"Molly deserves to be treated well. I would loathe for a lover of hers to show her the same contempt that I have."

John's eyebrows shot up somewhere into his hairline.

"You're _admitting _that you treat her badly?"

Sherlock paused his movements of ladling soup into the bowls, and John saw his shoulders move in a minute sigh.

"I... I was simply never interested in her, and I didn't want to give her false hope. I treat her the way I do because I think it is far crueller to let someone hope for what is never going to happen, than to make it clear that they shouldn't waste their time."

John was reminded of the time that Moriarty had posed as 'Jim from I.T.', and led Molly to believe they were dating as a ploy to visit Sherlock, pretend to be gay, and give him his number _(what a wanker, seriously, geniuses and their need for a bloody audience)_. Sherlock had (mistakenly, just to remind you, _he got it wrong)_ deduced that Jim was gay, and immediately and tactlessly told Molly to stop wasting her time on him. When John had scolded him then, too, he had responded that he thought it was the 'kind' thing to do.

John sighed. While Sherlock definitely understood emotions, he was rubbish at dealing with them. That's just how he was, and how he always would be.

"So does Greg meet your standards?" He said it as a half-joke - but undoubtedly, if Sherlock really did care about Molly, he would actually have a mental list of perquisites that any potential partner of Molly Hooper ought to fulfil.

"Oh, yes, I'm sure he'll be sufficient. High date:sex ratio, so I think we can safely assume that companionship is a significant factor in the relationship. And as far as I can tell, he's satisfying her sexually - I'll need to drop in to Bart's sometime soon to analyse her, though, in order to confirm that."

He turned back to John, and handed him a bowl before sitting down at the table himself.

"So if he's passed the test, why the hasty forced exit and unnecessary mentions of our sex life?"

He tasted the soup - pumpkin and carrot - and was relieved to find it was actually really good. _I wonder if I could convince him to keep doing a share of the cooking even once I'm better..._

"Well, don't want to let him get complacent. Negative reinforcement. Every time he does something to do with Molly that displeases me, I'll remind him of things he doesn't want to know about."

"And you complain about _Mycroft_ being an interfering git," John smirked at Sherlock.

Sherlock opened his mouth in indignation, but John reached across the table and patted Sherlock's hand.

_"And it's not necessarily a bad thing,_ Sherlock, because although you two have funny ways of showing it, it means you both _do_ care about people. You're not so different. Maybe you know a bit how he feels, now, with your wanting-to-protect-Molly thing. He _does_ care about you."

Sherlock was silent for the rest of lunch. Thinking. Instead of returning to his desk to write more for the prosecution, he sat in his armchair for the rest of the afternoon. He didn't speak, and John didn't bother trying to talk to him. While the Holmes brothers had been working together these last months on toppling Moriarty's network, there had been at least an absence of open hostility - but that was about as friendly as it got between them. It was about time Sherlock and Mycroft sorted out this stupid sibling rivalry feud thing, and if Sherlock needed a while to think about it first, then so be it. He'd eventually come to see what was plain as day to John: Mycroft _cared_ about him. He wasn't just an overbearing, highly-qualified prat for no reason; he really did want what was best for Sherlock. And maybe Sherlock would come to realise that they weren't so different.

John settled himself onto the sofa with a book and his phone, and typed out a text to Greg.

_"Thanks for dropping by. Sorry about Sherlock. He's secretly pleased about you and Molly, but course you know that. J."_

_"No problem. It's funny, he's been banging on about Mycroft interfering in his life for years, but he's exactly the same. He's a right git, but he means well. ;-) G."_

_"Tell me about it. Friday sound good for a pint? J."_

_"Deal. G."_


	6. Chapter 6

25 December 2013

An enormous red farmhouse wasn't entirely what John had expected of Sherlock's childhood home. 'Enormous', yes, but he had been thinking more 'enormous' in the sense of a grand white mansion with servants and butlers and things. So he was pleasantly surprised when the Land Rover that Sherlock had hired for the trip out to the country (John had rolled his eyes - it seemed that Sherlock liked his cars the way he liked his coats; far larger and more dramatic than necessary) pulled up to something that looked really rather homely.

Mr and Mrs Holmes were also not entirely what John had expected. As soon as Sherlock, Mrs Hudson and John set foot in the house, they were showered with warm greetings and hugs (hearing Sherlock say "Yes, hello, Mummy," in a tone torn between fondness, embarrassment and impatience had John suppressing a laugh). What struck John most was how perfectly _ordinary_ they both seemed. Mrs Holmes embraced John as though he were her own son and tutted and fretted over his recent injuries even through his reassurances that all was healing well (his injuries being what had brought them here in the first place - upon hearing the news of his close shave with Moran, Mrs Holmes put her foot down and _insisted_ they visit for Christmas so Sherlock's parents could meet John before somebody put a bullet in them both).

Sherlock had once described her to John as a mathematical genius version of Mrs Hudson, and John was surprised by the accuracy of that description. She was a bit plump with a kindly face and eyes precisely the same colour - whatever that colour was - as Sherlock. Eventually she let go of John with a pat to his cheek and moved on to greet Mrs Hudson. Mr Holmes started forward and shook John's hand.

"John! Good to_ finally_-" he looked over at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow, "-meet you." Glancing at Mrs Holmes, who was now animatedly talking to Mrs Hudson about the drive from London, he added in a sly undertone- "Complete flake, my wife - but happens to be a genius." And then he winked. _Oh, my God. He's a completely normal bloke._

When Mrs Holmes finally deemed them thoroughly greeted, she showed them in to the kitchen and Sherlock took John and Mrs Hudson upstairs to put their bags in their rooms. John was intrigued by the house. He counted a formal dining room and two sitting rooms before they reached the stairs, all decorated with numerous Christmas ornaments and tinsel and candles. All the rooms seemed to be different colours, too - the dining room walls were predominantly stone, one of the sitting rooms had red walls, and the other had green - and both with a fireplace, plush armchairs and lots of books scattered around. It was a far cry from the pristine white mansion that John had been expecting - _this? _This was textbook English cosiness.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock stopped off at the first bedroom on the left and showed Mrs Hudson in. He then continued down the hall to another door on the right. A little wooden sign that said _Sherlock_ in neat hand-painted calligraphy hung on the front of the door. John was fascinated. This was Sherlock's childhood bedroom. While Sherlock had told him a bit about his youth, there was still so much John wondered; it escaped him how such an extraordinary man was formed.

Sherlock barged in without ado, swinging the suitcase up onto the bed (John was still enjoying Sherlock having to carry everything as his ribs weren't healed quite to the point where he was fully functioning again) and opening it to hang their clothes in the wardrobe. John took a moment to look around and take in the details of the space which Sherlock had called home for so long. The room wasn't massive, a bit smaller than their current bedroom in 221b. The walls were painted a deep navy blue over the roughly textured cob plastering. All his furniture was timber - looked like mahogany - and consisted of a queen bed (course he would've bloody had a queen bed even as a kid) , a desk and chair, a bookcase, and a wardrobe. The window looked out over the front yard and across the field. There wasn't much on the walls but for a few empty hooks - John suspected he had taken his wall decorations with him when he'd moved out.

John moved over to the bookcase. He'd been watching how Sherlock worked for long enough to know he could learn a lot from it. Sherlock loved books, always had - John should be able to tell at least something about his childhood from his books. John scanned each of the shelves.

"Very astute of you, John."

John turned to see Sherlock sitting on the bed - he had finished unpacking their suitcase. He was watching with a raised eyebrow and a small smile. John shrugged.

"Well, not exactly genius-level stuff, I'm just looking."

"Tell me what you see."

John turned back to the shelves. He crouched a bit, so that he was about the height of a ten-year-old kid.

"Well, when you were young, you liked adventure stories," he commented, scanning the titles at eye height - _Swallows and Amazons, Robinson Crusoe, The Chronicles of Narnia_, that sort of thing.

"Yes..." His tone dripped with the _'obviously'_ he was dying to say and John practically heard his eyes rolling. "What else?"

John shifted his gaze up to the next shelf.

"Ah. Then Mycroft decided it was time to make an impression." This shelf was dominated by books that seemed to centre round the general topics of thought and logic, and all the titles were in alphabetical order. A few philosophical titles, and some ancient texts, too. Quite a lot of Goethe - who Sherlock still revered to this day. This shelf must have been curated about the time that Mycroft had decided to step in and start 'training' Sherlock in the most efficient ways to use his brain.

_"Very_ good," Sherlock sounded impressed - perhaps he hadn't expected John to make that particular deductive leap to Mycroft's interference. John smiled to himself a little before moving on to the next shelf, now at his own head height - Sherlock must have been in his mid teens when he was reading these books.

"Hm - so here's where the intrigue in crime solving started." Here lived books that were diverse in topic, but all unmistakably relevant to crime (or the analysis and solving of it). Human anatomy and biology, chemistry, forensics, psychology, a few crime novels, some computer coding books, a bit of history. John actually recognised a few of the titles from around the flat.

"Huh. See you found some gems about this time, too."

"What do you mean?"

"Well you've got some of these at home, but the ones at home must be newer editions, otherwise why wouldn't you have brought these copies with you instead? So they must be good enough for you to bother to keep up with the newest editions."

All of a sudden, he felt lips on his neck, hands on his waist, and Sherlock's curls tickled his jaw. He jumped - the bed hadn't creaked when Sherlock climbed off it.

"Jesus, can you please not do that?"

Sherlock's reply was a little muffled.

"Hmm?"

"Move like a bloody cat, you'll give me a heart attack one day."

"Mmm." Sherlock clearly wasn't listening to what he was saying. His body lined up flush behind John's and his arms circled John's waist, a hand reaching down to rub over the doctor's crotch as his lips moved up his jaw.

"Oi! Out of it, we're at your parents house for Christmas lunch."

"We're in _my room."_ His voice was low and seductive. His tongue darted out to barely touch behind John's ear, and a shiver ran down John's spine.

_"And they're waiting for us downstairs."_ John ground out through his teeth, grasping Sherlock's wrists and prying his arms from around him.

Sherlock huffed a longsuffering sigh and relented.

"Later, then. You're positively _inspiring _when you're not being an idiot."

Mycroft arrived not long after Sherlock and John returned downstairs. John was again audience to the sight of a Holmes son awkwardly kissing his mother on the cheek, and he didn't think the novelty would wear off for a while. Anthea, for once, wasn't in tow - John had half expected her to be joining them, but it seemed Mycroft really was taking the day off - the only exception being the laptop he brought to the dining table with him.

John had never particularly enjoyed the scrutiny (does anyone?) of a 'meet-the-parents' occasion, but Mr and Mrs Holmes were - in stark contrast to their sons - entirely amiable.

Mrs Holmes nattered on about anything from their line dancing holidays to (when prompted by her husband) her work in thermodynamics. She was initially bashful ("Oh no dear, they don't want to hear about that, mathematics seems _terribly _fatuous nowadays,"), but it only took a little encouragement from Mrs Hudson and John before she was launching into a full (and fascinating, as far as maths went) explanation of her research. Mr Holmes chimed in occasionally to finish her sentences, and by the end of lunch, John was completely charmed by the pair of them. However, if anything, he was even _further _from understanding how Mycroft and Sherlock ended up being... well - Mycroft and Sherlock.

Some things, he supposed, had to be left to mystery.

"Now _take me,_ John, I've been thinking about it since we got here, it's the only thing that makes Mycroft bearable for extended periods of time."

John huffed a laugh and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair before raising an eyebrow. The afternoon and evening had been pleasant enough, by his standards - nothing near the bitter sibling rivalry he had been expecting. Sherlock and Mycroft had even gone outside together for a smoke after lunch - not that John approved, but perhaps it was the start of a reconciliation.

"Hmm. Let me know when I'm in a fit enough state to even carry a suitcase again, and _then_ I'll fuck you. Unless you want me to bugger up my ribs again-" he rolled over to his side so he was facing away from Sherlock, and rubbed up against him (they'd discovered spooning caused John's ribs the least discomfort),"- you'll have to be the one doing the taking if you want to get any tonight."

Sherlock sighed dramatically, but kissed the back of John's neck and reached for the lube.

"What would you've done, Sherlock?"

_"Ngh-_ Hmm?"

"If Moran killed me _-oh!-_ before you got there."

Sherlock stopped the slow roll of his hips and detached his lips from the back of John's neck.

"John, I'm not sure dirty talk's _quite_ your thing." He managed to sound sarcastic, breathless, and confused all at the same time.

John snorted, but lowered his voice to something softer.

"No, I mean it. I want to hear what I mean to you. Come on, indulge me. It's Christmas."

Sherlock sighed into the back of his neck, which turned into a little gasp when John kissed the inside of his wrist. John reached back and pressed him forward softly again, so that he was still moving inside him, but slow enough to allow conversation. They never talked all that much during sex (other than the sort of communication that didn't actually require the English language), but John thought that the physical abandon might allow Sherlock to open up a bit. They'd been through a lot this past while, and he felt like there were things they didn't usually say aloud that needed to be said.

Sherlock grunted a little as he obliged and started rolling his hips slowly again, taking John in hand. John had to work hard to keep his voice steady, and it didn't work. He didn't think he would ever get tired of these sensations.

"Tell me- tell me why you'd miss me if I weren't here."

"Well - _ngh_ \- your _delightful_ arse, for a start-"

"Oi!" John chuckled, and Sherlock did too before speaking again.

"Your companionship, obviously."

"What about it?"

"You're above average intelligence, and of relatively quick wit, which I appreciate. You're exceedingly patient." John loved hearing his voice a little strained like that, especially when it was delivering compliments.

"Mmm." He reached up and back and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair, tugging a little. The touch seemed to coax something out of the detective.

"Your - your compassion astounds me. You have no idea-" he broke off, seeming to catch himself.

"What?" John encouraged him, slipping his fingers back just to slide gently between the dip between Sherlock's arse cheeks, teasing over his entrance. Sherlock let out a small, surprised moan and he pushed himself deeper into John. _Oh, dear lord._ John wasn't going to last long like this. When Sherlock spoke again, his voice was quieter, but more intense.

"You've no idea how many times you've saved me, John. It's always you. You are the - the bravest and the kindest and the - _ngh_ \- wisest human being I have ever known." He seemed to be building courage, now, gaining momentum. John could feel his forehead pressed into the nape of his neck and his breath puffing hotly over his back. His hips increased their rhythm.

"It's - I never thought - _hngh_ \- I never expected to be loved, John. It's just you." Sherlock's voice was rough and he was panting now, his rhythm deep and steady. His left arm had snaked under John's body and was holding him close, his fingers splayed over John's chest and digging into the muscle. His body was pressed flush against John's back and he was hitting John's prostate with every thrust, _oh, God._ It was achingly intimate, even more so because of how vulnerable Sherlock was allowing himself to be. John could feel himself getting close, but he tried to hold off his orgasm until Sherlock was finished saying what he needed to. The sensations and the emotions were almost overwhelming, and he couldn't stop the moans from escaping him.

"You are - you are the only person I have ever truly-" he was interrupted by a whimper, and John knew he was right on the edge too, "-I never expected to - to love someone. But _I love you, John,"_ the words were heavy with emotion that even John was rarely privy to. _"I love you - oh, God, John - I love -!" _his words were choked off as he came with a broken groan, shuddering deep inside John and holding him close. The feeling of Sherlock's climax shuddering through his body and the words that John had been longing to hear finally falling from Sherlock's lips pushed John over the edge, too. He moaned Sherlock's name as he came, spurting hot and wet over those long, elegant fingers and pushing back onto him, this mad, inexplicable man that he loved. It seemed to go on forever, as wave after wave rattled through them.

Eventually, they stilled. They were still panting as Sherlock pulled out slowly and rolled onto his back. John turned to face him and collapsed with his head on Sherlock's shoulder, still shaking a little with the aftershocks. Sherlock's arms encircled him and held him tight. When John glanced up to look at Sherlock's face, he saw tear tracks running down the detective's cheeks. His eyes were closed and his head angled back as he breathed heavily, little keening sounds leaving him with every exhale. John had never seen him so vulnerable, and he felt a lump rise in his own throat. That had been the most intensely emotional sex he'd ever had, and he felt simultaneously joyful and wrung out.

They stayed like that for some time, both allowing their breathing rates to return to normal. John was the first to move. He turned and placed a kiss to Sherlock's clavicle, to which Sherlock didn't respond. Then he moved down to his nipple, which he knew would elicit a response. Sure enough, when John's lips made contact, Sherlock bucked and gasped and opened his eyes, no doubt oversensitive. When his gaze met John's, John came up to kiss him, soft and slow. Neither of them closed their eyes.

He came up for air and he held Sherlock's face, memorising the way he looked right now. Open and honest and _in love_. Those not-quite-grey-not-quite-green eyes searched his own with a look of wonder.

"God, I love you." He pressed his lips to Sherlock's again. This stuff wasn't easy for him, either, but Sherlock deserved to hear it, so he let the words flow. "I love you. You are mad, and brilliant, and you make me happy like nobody else has ever managed. _I love you." _He kissed Sherlock again, and then, out of nowhere, he couldn't stop himself laughing.

This - _all of this, my whole bloody life_ \- was hilarious. Ridiculous. Incredible - nigh-on impossible. Brilliant. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve this, but he was _happy._ He felt the familiar rumble roll through Sherlock's chest, too, and knew he felt the same. They gave up on kissing, and just lay next to each other, laughing until their sides hurt. And then they laughed some more, because every time they made eye contact they started giggling again. It was ridiculous, and they didn't usually let themselves act like such sickeningly lovestruck teenagers, but tonight it was _right._

That night, for the first time, they slept with limbs entangled. Sherlock's leg wrapped around John's and John's arm draped across Sherlock's chest. Their fingers entwined and they shifted and muttered in sleep, nudging each other into more comfortable positions. Sherlock awoke with a sore neck and John with a cramping back, but they awoke together - and that was enough.


End file.
